


The Threads That Bind

by TinyDemonWriter



Series: Family Isn't Forged from Blood [2]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, F/F, F/M, M/M, Minor Character Death, all of this is badboyhalo's pov, cryptid AU, sorry if it's kinda confusing given that it takes 11k words to actually get to his name lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 07:27:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28467528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinyDemonWriter/pseuds/TinyDemonWriter
Summary: Demetrius puts a calloused hand on Solaris’ face, cradling it as gently as he’s able. He can’t help but notice the sharp contrast between them, note how smooth her face is even after all this time.She leans into him, eyes closed and smiling with contentment. It warms him from the inside out, the sight of her smile.“My sunshine,” he whispers, a quiet blasphemy. Should Apollo hear it, his wrath would be immeasurable, but in their quiet sanctuary he feels safe from the prying eyes of the gods.“My center,” she murmurs back, another quiet admission of adoration.“Wherever I go, I vow to find you. Forever and always.”
Relationships: Darryl Noveschosch & Technoblade, Zak Ahmed & Darryl Noveschosch, Zak Ahmed/Darryl Noveschosch
Series: Family Isn't Forged from Blood [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2072445
Comments: 7
Kudos: 46





	The Threads That Bind

Demetrius falls in love the first time he lays eyes on her.

She’s not doing anything special, just perusing his goods, but something about her pulls Demetrius into her orbit. Maybe it’s the smile on her face, small but joyous. Maybe it’s the sound of her humming, which catches in the wind and makes its way into his ears.

Maybe it’s the way her eyes catch the light when she looks up and Demetrius gets a clear look at her eyes. They’re a sky blue so pure Demetrius finds himself wondering if she’s a child of Apollo, sent here to capture his heart and soul.

Demetrius thinks, looking into those clear blue eyes, he would let her drag his soul all the way to the pits of Tarturus if it meant he could spend one more minute in her presence. He would let her burn him to ash, if it meant he could feel the heat of her smooth brown skin.

She sends him a wave, teeth glinting in the sun’s rays and Demetrius barely has the presence of mind to wave back.

He goes through the motions of the trade for bread, too entranced by the cadence of her words to comprehend their contents. He mustn’t do too bad a job, either, for she gives a shy wave as she leaves, cheeks red and a small smile on her face.

Dream finds him a time later, still moonstruck, replaying the way soft lips curled around honey smooth words. He gets teased relentlessly, but Demetrius doesn’t mind. He wouldn’t trade it for the world.

And when she comes in the next day, and he learns of her name he can’t help but think it’s fitting. Solaris. Sunshine given human form.

And when she comes in the day after, no need for sweets, he aches as he realizes she’s looking at him.

She’s bold, bolder than most women in the village and for some that would be off-putting but not to him. Solaris is bold and beautiful and so very bright. She’s the first to suggest they go somewhere other than his bakery and he rushes to close up shop, hours earlier than he should.

She laughs and says it can wait, but Demetrius doesn’t want to. When he tells her as much, the flush on her cheeks reminds him of the sweetness of the apples of his youth.

Demetrius takes shaky hands and links his pinky with hers. The gesture is small, private, and with that comes an intimacy that sends his heart racing. They walk that way through the rest of the village, arriving at a meadow and they spend the rest of the day laughing and talking.

When the stars come out, she excitedly points up at them, telling stories of how they came to be. They are stories he already knows, but she breathes a new life into them. She enraptures him completely, and he lets himself be consumed.

When she looks over at him, he can’t look away. Sky blue eyes hold the reflection of a thousand tiny stars. She’s stunning, ethereal, god touched, and he’s blessed to be able to be in this clearing with her.

They hold eye contact for an endless eon before she teases him for not paying attention. He laughs but doesn’t deny that he’s been looking at her more than he has the stars.

He finds them far more interesting when they’re reflected in her eyes.

By the end of the week Demetrius is ready to be married though he doesn’t dare to say so to Solaris. Aphrodite is a vengeful goddess, whose machinations are often cruel. He doesn’t dare to do anything that may garner the goddess’ attention, lest she might take his Solaris away from him somehow.

It takes a year of fanning the gentle sparks of love before he’s ready to do anything. He takes her out to the clearing under the warm blanket of night. He prepares a selection of deserts, sticky sweet and baked to perfection. Her hand is warm in his and he has barely begun to ask when she throws her arms around him, her yes nearly lost to the heat of her arms.

They get approval of her father and are wed that winter. It’s a celebration and Dream attends, making Demetrius feel so proud. Though Solaris may have been the one to teach him romantic love, he has always felt a familial one towards this kid who has lost too many far too quickly.

It’s easily the best day of his life.

That night he holds Solaris close, whispering sweet nothings into her ear as they make love in the gentle glow of the hearth.

After, she laughs and flips them over, lays her head on his chest. He gently cards his hands through her hair and knows that this is what it means to be in love. The gentle heat that rises up to a raging inferno. The warmth of contentment and the spark of joy.

They spend their days together, and Demetrius falls a little more everyday. Falls in love with the sway of her hips and the wrinkles on her hands. The hook of her nose and the softness of her hair. The crows feet in her eyes and the strength of her emotion.

It’s during one of these gentle nights that he makes Solaris a promise.

Demetrius puts a calloused hand on Solaris’ face, cradling it as gently as he’s able. He can’t help but notice the sharp contrast between them, note how smooth her face is even after all this time.

She leans into him, eyes closed and smiling with contentment. It warms him from the inside out, the sight of her smile.

“My sunshine,” he whispers, a quiet blasphemy. Should Apollo hear it, his wrath would be immeasurable, but in their quiet sanctuary he feels safe from the prying eyes of the gods.

“My center,” she murmurs back, another quiet admission of adoration. She had told him, so long ago, that part of why she loved him so much was because of how he made her feel like she was walking the ground with new eyes. Like she could take the time to savor the earth between her feet.

With this thought he whispers to her, “Wherever I go, I vow to find you. Forever and always.”

And he means it. 

If it means shoving his way through the fields of Asphodel to find her, so be it. If it means taking down every monster in Tartarus to get to her, so be it. If it means going to Hades himself and demanding he see her, well, he’s always thought himself a tad smarter than Orpheus.

It doesn’t come to that, however. Instead, when it’s his time to go he wakes up in a barren field with nothing in sight.

Demetrius thinks it a dream at first, when he looks at his hands and notices they aren’t spotted with age. When he’s able to walk without pain for the first time in years. When his sight is so clear he can see for ages all around.

He continues trekking forward, for some destination he doesn’t know. He just walks until he spots a figure in the distance, bright red cloak standing out against the dim brown of the wasteland he’s in.

“Hello?” He calls out, voice echoing off of walls that aren’t there. “Where are we?”

The person doesn’t move, just stands there and Demetrius gets closer. As he does, he realizes the figure isn’t standing so much as they are floating a bit off the ground.

“Hello?” He calls again, quieter this time. The word still reverberates in his head, skin buzzing with something like fear.

The person turns, hood falling away, and locks eyes with Demetrius.

The first thing Demetrius notices is the shocking pink hair. It’s shoulder length and jagged, like it had been cut through with a blade rather than with the precision of scissors. Despite that, it’s a beautiful shade, light and soft, almost feminine. But a glance at the person's face has him stepping back in animalistic fear.

There’s a jagged scar running across the man’s face, distorting the shape of his nose. His mouth is set in an unintentional snarl, large tusk like teeth poking out and resting upon his top lip. And his eyes. His eyes are the most haunting part of him.

They’re a deep, blood red color, and looking into them Demetrius feels his body freezing in place. They look dull, glazed over, and unseeing upon first glance. But Demetrius is trapped in the gaze and sucked in deeper into those eyes. The longer he looks the more distorted the field around him seems, and he swears he can hear screaming coming from within his own mind.

There’s an unending rage in those eyes, underneath the apathy, and it keeps Demetrius rooted to the spot.

The man takes a couple steps forward and the sound reminds him of a large bell, intoning his own demise. How this went from a dream to a nightmare Demetrius doesn’t know, but he knows that he has to leave.

He knows he can’t.

Another step, another loud intonation. Another. Another.

The man is close enough that Demetrius can smell the coppery scent of blood that doesn’t seem to be coming from anywhere in particular. It’s just an oppressive weight in the air, a cloying scent that sticks to the back of Demetrius’ throat, choking him.

The man snakes an arm around his own waist and pulls out a scythe and that’s when he realizes he’s about to face his own death.

He prays to the gods above that his Solaris will be okay, that his sunshine won’t dim her rays with his passing.

He hopes to see her again, but not too soon.

Another step, and the weight is a physical thing, pressing down on his shoulders.

The man raises his scythe up high and looking into his eyes Demetrius thinks he can see a hint of regret before it comes bearing down on him.

He clenches his eyes shut in preparation for the pain.

Nothing. He feels… nothing?

He opens his eyes again to see the man looking at him with something almost like confusion.

“What are you?” He asks. His voice is a deep rumble that almost turns to a growl, and on the heels of it Demetrius can hear those screams again. 

“I-I,” Demetrius sputters, struggling to get the words out from behind his fear. The man narrows his eyes at him and Demetrius finds it in himself to look away.

He looks down at his feet and clenches his hands into fists. He takes a deep, calming, centuring, breath. And then another. After a moment of silence he looks up again.

“I am Demetrius,” he says and is proud of the way his voice doesn’t shake the way his hands are.

“That does not answer my question. What. Are. You?” Every word is like a gong in his head and his heart beats a too fast tempo. But still he doesn’t falter.

“I am Demetrius,” he repeats, firmer this time. He doesn’t know what the man wants but this is all he is going to give.

The man stares into his eyes and it’s like Demetrius’ very soul is being read. Like his life is a story for someone, no, something else’s consumption.

“Strange,” the man says, tone blank. “You are like me but-” his head tilts and Demetrius catches sight of strange too sharp ears that stick out from his head. “No,” he continues, “you are not like me, but you are not to die here. Not yet.”

Demetrius doesn’t have a second to question that, before the scythe is descending towards his neck again. This time when his vision goes dark it isn’t because his eyes are closed.

Fausta has lived a very lucky life for a girl with her status. Her mother died in childbirth and her father couldn’t afford to keep another child who wouldn’t continue the family’s line, so she was given up to serve a wealthy general just outside the great city of Roma.

Though this may have been unfortunate for many, she had the great luck of being sold to the Marius family. Their house was extravagant and she even got a room all to herself! It was small, but she didn’t need much.

She was a very lucky girl, so of course Lady Fortuna had to put things back in balance by making her deal with him.

Aelius was by no means a bad person, he was just very, very annoying.

He was very pretty, and all the other servant girls adored him. They insisted on giving into his every whim. Even though he was a year younger than her, he acted like he was way more mature and way smarter and way better.

She didn’t find him charming in the least. She didn’t think his sun-kissed skin was beautiful or that his coal black hair looked soft. Fausta especially didn’t like how his smile got so soft as he fed the ducks in the garden’s little lake.

No, she didn’t like it one bit.

She folded the laundry neatly, placing it gently down in Aelius’ basket. She may not like Aelius, but she did enjoy her job. It kept her safe, gave her a home when hers didn’t want-

When hers couldn’t have her. Couldn’t, it wasn’t a matter of want, she had to remember that. It was a logical decision, not one of feelings.

She heard a clatter at the door and whipped her head around to see Aelius looking at the wall, glancing over at her. She huffed quietly and rolled her eyes. He waved at her sheepishly and she turned back to her duties.

“Ahem,” Aelius said, as though she wasn’t aware of his presence. Still she liked this. Fausta needed this. So, she took a deep breath and held in a sigh.

“Yes, Young Master?” She asked demurely, like women of her age were supposed to be.

He stared at her, and she had to force her face still to keep from frowning. She wasn’t the prettiest woman by far, but he didn’t need to stare.

“Just... wanted to know if you were done. You’re needed in the kitchens. So, get on that.” Fausta just barely kept herself from snarling. There he went with that imperious tone again. Just because he’s the son of a general-!

“Yes, Young Master,” she said instead, holding in her annoyance. She liked her job, she didn’t want to go onto the streets. It never ended well for women like her.

She brushed by him, as she left the room, and pretended that the simple touch of skin on skin didn’t make her shiver.

She likes her job, and she thinks Aelius is annoying. It’s as easy as that. For a time.

Aelius is supposed to be at home. He’s sixteen now and they are supposed to be helping him find a wife and instead he’s out at the market doing gods knows what.

She’s been searching for the better part of the day. It isn’t so much that she hasn’t found him, just that he keeps getting away. Like now.

Fausta catches a glimpse of Aelius, and he’s looking right at her. It’s like the sun itself has illuminated him. In the center of a busy marketplace, he stands alone in a beam of liquid gold. His smile is practically blinding, and she can see how it crinkles his eyes and nose.

He’s beautiful.

She stands there for a moment, just taking in the sight of him and it’s like she’s eight again, being taken to yet another place so her father can be rid of her. And Aelius takes her hand and tells his father that she has to stay.

Simpler days, where they were free to be children. Before she grew up and realized it could never work, a servant and a general’s son.

Before she grew up and knew to give up on hope before it could even bloom.

Aelius winks at her and it’s so startling she’s knocked out of her musings. He gives a small, jaunty wave before turning and darting through the streets again.

Not this time, she thinks, and forgets all propriety as she chases after him.

Her feet drum out a steady beat against rough cobblestone and she uses her arms to push through the crowd. Travelling merchants try to get her to stop, waving pretty fabrics uselessly in her direction. Faster, faster she pushes herself, using a box to her advantage to leap over a small child who’s huddled on the ground.

The smell of warm bread and sweet honey tempts her to stop, but she ignores it. She slips into the bakery from the front and slips right back out through the side to get past the corner ever faster, using it to her advantage.

She knocks over a man in dirty tattered clothes and rushes to apologize. She barely notices that he’s rail thin and has a strange stained mask covering most of his face before she’s off again.

She doesn’t hate Aelius, Aelius makes her feel alive. Makes her feel like she’s playing tag in a field for all that she’s running after him during a busy day at the market.

It’s terrifying. It’s exhilarating.

It nearly leads to her getting in trouble with a city guard. They stop her and roughly ask her why she’s running around ruining the market place.

“I-,” Fausta splutters unable to come up with an answer that doesn’t sound ridiculous even to her own ears. She just wanted to feel like a child again? She wanted to be able to chase something she wanted without feeling like it was against the Fates’ wishes for her?

“It’s my fault,” she hears from behind her. She turns and isn’t surprised to see that it’s Aelius.

He’s smiling his most charming smile at the guards, and she pretends she doesn’t feel her heart skip a beat. Why is he like this? Why does he pull on her heart like this when she knows nothing can come of it?

She’s lost in her own thoughts so she barely notices when the guards move on, Aelius having talked them away from punishing her. He turns to her, bright smile on his face and all her repressed feelings come out in a fit of rage.

“What are you doing?” Fausta hisses, eyes narrowed in frustration. “You’re supposed to be at home right now! Your father has had a number of city fathers bring in their daughters to see about an engagement and you’re out here doing- doing- doing gods knows what!”

Aelius takes a step back when Fausta advances on him. On the one hand she understands that she’s probably going too far, but all propriety has left her. All the incidents of teasing, all the moments where he’s annoyed her, where he’s put things in his room or the kitchens that make her chores harder, all of it has been piling on.

The denial of how, in spite of how much he annoys her sometimes, she adores him. She thinks he’s pretty and she thinks his care of the ducks is cute. How the pranks he pulls on some of the other house staff are kinda funny, when it’s not mean. How he apologizes when someone gets hurt because of him, and tries to take care of them despite how bad he is at it is endearing.

Fausta has the biggest crush of Aelius and she hates it because he can never reciprocate.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and it sounds so sincere that Fausta blinks. He has apologized before, of course, when he’s interrupted her work with another prank, but it’s never this genuine.

Well, no, not quite. It’s usually done with some amusement, it’s never this serious.

“I-What?” 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats again, “I should have come with you.”

“I-” she’s struggling to recover, as people rarely apologize to her, if ever.

Then again, she never says that anything’s wrong, does she? She just accepts that people will be rude and will do whatever they please and she doesn’t do anything about it. She’s accepted that she is an inconvenience and it’s better for her if she does not try to change that. That she not demand that it’s changed.

“Right,” she says weakly. “So, why didn’t you, then?”

He’s quiet for a moment and Fausta thinks she’s pushed too hard, demanded too much. She isn’t to demand anything, ever, and to try and push it was a mistake.

“You smiled,” Aelius says, so softly Fausta doesn’t believe she’s heard anything.

“I- I always smile, though?” And she’s so confused, it is practically her life’s work to smile, of course she smiles, every day.

“Not that happily. Not to me.” And Fausta has no response to that.

“Let’s go home,” Aelius says. “I’ll lead the way.”

“Right,” Fausta says, for what else is there to say? She’s never been this shocked in her life, at least, not in a good way? Is it a good way?

Yes, she decides, as Aelius walks them home, arm linked with hers. It is a good kind of shock. The kind that makes her think that this could be a change for the better.

And for a time, it is. They get in a bit of trouble when they get home, but Aelius manages to talk his father out of punishing them too harshly. Fausta has a few more things to take care of around the house and Aelius isn’t to spar for the next three days, but it could be worse.

It could be much worse. Now, Aelius spends time with her, speaking softly while she goes about her business. That’s not to say that he doesn’t still get on her nerves, however. Aelius enjoys his pranks and it seems she’s not excluded from that, still.

The first time she snaps at him, not so much angry as she is exasperated she freezes. Seventeen years of quiet obedience snapped by one day in the market. Fausta expects for Aelius to scorn her, for him to resent her, for him to get her thrown out, but none of this happens.

Instead, she watches a smile bloom across his face and then he snaps back. It’s not angry, it’s playful, almost. Suddenly they’re arguing, but it doesn’t feel like they’re arguing, not really. She’s not quite sure how to explain it, but she isn’t mad at him, and somehow she knows he’s not mad at her either.

By the end of their argument, she can’t even remember what started it. All she knows is that there’s a smile on her lips and her shoulders have dropped and suddenly they’re laughing. 

She thinks they’re friends now, which is nice. She’s not had one, before.

But Lady Fortuna doesn’t like it when things are out of balance, and all good things must come to an end. 

Nearly a week after the end of Aelius’ punishment, his father organizes a meeting with the local women and fathers for an engagement. Though many of the women are beautiful, one in particular sticks out, a woman by the name of Velia.

She’s beautiful, fair skin and long dark hair. She’s well mannered, shapely, and a smile that’s just as charming as Aelius’. She’s everything that Fausta feels she isn’t and she can’t even be angry for Velia is just so kind. She treats Fausta with respect and even makes conversation, when her and Aelius’ father are speaking.

A week later and it is decided that Velia and Aelius are to be wed. Fausta vows to never share her feelings with Aelius, for she’s still happy for the two of them.

They look beautiful together, and Fausta is so happy she aches. 

The news that she is to go with them is both a blessing and a curse. As a servant to the Marius family, the possibility of her staying with Aelius was fairly high, but the fact that Aelius asked for her is shocking.

Is it, though? They’re friends after all. Still, she thought perhaps that being married to Velia would occupy his time. The wedding and its preparations certainly did, after all.

She moves in, a week after the wedding, and the house isn’t as large as she’s used to, but her room is still bigger. It’s a strange contrast, this new house. Fausta is the only servant, so far, and so she sets to work immediately.

She doesn’t know what she was expecting, moving in with the new couple, but it wasn’t this.

Velia smiles and asks for help in the kitchen, and shows Fausta some of her family's recipes when she blushes and says she’s not worked in the kitchens much. Aelius helps her hang the laundry, one day, and speaks to her in the joking argument way that they haven’t in what feels like eons.

It’s easy, in that house, but it’s difficult as well.

She can feel the stab of jealousy and heartbreak when she sees Velia and Aelius kiss. Though marriages are often loveless, Fausta can see them start to fall in their every embrace. It hurts, but she pushes it down because she’s become friends with the both of them.

Because somehow she’s managed to befriend Velia, too. They whisper sometimes, of their fears. Of the hardship of being a woman in a society that cares little for them. They have inside jokes that carry on into the day that confuse Aelius to no end, and they laugh at his expressions as much as they do at the jokes themselves.

When she sees Aelius and Velia embrace, she’s not entirely sure who she’s jealous of, anymore.

Still, it is easy to push down her jealousy. She has practice, after all. For the most part, it’s easy, in that house. Simple and fun in a way that the Marius house never was.

The day that Aelius leaves on horseback for the Greek-Roman border started just as any other. Fausta prepared breakfast with Velia commenting and helping her. Aelius got up late and kissed Velia good morning, and gave Fausta a half hug, grabbing plates for the three of them.

Aelius went out, visiting his father and Fausta and Velia tended to the house. Velia splashed water onto Fausta when they were doing the laundry. Fausta retaliated by “accidently” tossing dirt onto her dress. They smiled as they changed within the same room, Fausta doing her best not to steal looks in Velia’s direction as they did so.

That night, however, Aelius told them of his imminent departure. Velia was worried, as any good wife would be, but ultimately supported him. Fausta worried as well, but knew the call of responsibility, and knew that this would be Aelius’ chance into getting into Elysium.

That night, Fausta was invited to lie with them. They only slept, but it took ages for Somnus to pull her under. She savored the heat of Aelius against her back. The softness of Velia’s hand in hers.

It felt like a goodbye, and that terrified her.

Still, she kept Venus’ influence close to her chest. She didn’t dare speak of these feelings, for she knew it would do more harm than good. Venus and Mars were a deadly combination, and she didn’t dare tempt Lady Fortuna.

The next season was difficult.

Velia and Fausta often received letters from Aelius, telling them that he’s doing well. It’s enough, but only because they have each other. They grow closer, in the time that he’s gone. Trading secrets that burn on their way out.

“I think I am in love with you,” Velia whispers one night, far past the time when they should have slept. “But my heart still belongs to Aelius.”

Fausta turns to face her, for she’s been sleeping in their bed for nearly a month now. She moves herself closer to Velia, eyes struggling to see. “I think I am in love with you as well,” she responds. “And I have been in love with Aelius for years.”

They embrace that night, lonely and aching, but finding comfort in each other. Nothing more is said on the subject, but they don’t hesitate in holding hands anymore. Don’t pull back from contact.

A week goes by without a letter.

Two weeks.

A month.

They receive a letter, but it’s not from Aelius.

The letter says that Aelius died heroically. That he died in combat. That he was buried properly and was certain to get into Elysium.

It doesn’t matter. None of their platitudes matter. Looking into Velia’s eyes, Fausta can tell that she feels the same.

They seek comfort in each other at night, crying into each other’s arms. The night after, they cry some more.

The night after.

Eventually they have run out of tears and merely embrace, but they can’t replace the warmth of Aelius’ arms no matter how much Fausta tries.

Still, they move on. They mourn, hand in hand. Fausta never weds, and Velia refuses to marry again. They stick together, in a home that is paid for by Velia’s father, and they shut out the world around them.

Fausta misses Aelius every single day. She misses his warmth and his teasing. Misses the way they could argue over nothing and laugh about it a few minutes later. She wishes she could have told him so many things.

She thinks they could have made it work, if they only had more time. The three of them could have made it work.

She misses her best friend.

Time heals all wounds, however, even those in the heart. Velia is a wonderful companion and Fausta loves her so much. She never asks to replace Aelius and Fausta never asks Velia to do so either. They each miss him, but they grow old together. They talk about him and cry and laugh and they fall a little more in love each day.

I’ve had a good life, Fausta thinks. A lucky one. She thinks her passing will be okay, and hopes to join Velia and Aelius in the after life.

She opens her eyes to a large field and wonders if this is what Asphodel looks like.

Only, no, this place seems… familiar, almost.

She looks down to her hands, young and unwrinkled, and for a moment she thinks she sees a small burn scar on her knuckles. She blinks and it’s gone.

Where is she? Where’s Velia?

“Hello?” She calls out, and ignores the shiver down her spine. She walks, calling out every now and then for someone, anyone. She walks for eons or minutes or days or hours. Time is hard, sliding between her fingers like sand.

Where was she? Why was she here?

Why is she so alone?

Only, there, in the distance. A figure in a red cloak. They turn to face her, and she’s unable to make out anything but pink hair from the distance she’s at. A jolt of fear bolts down her spine at the sight, breathing coming faster for no discernible reason.

The figure, a man, approaches her steadily. Fausta stands stock still, fear keeping her frozen. Was this Charun, sent to bring her to the underworld?

Only, no, that didn’t seem right. He was too familiar for that. Who was he?

“Hello?” She asks, mouth moving without her permission. “Where are we?” Why was she talking? It was as though she was speaking to a play that her body knew but her mind didn’t. 

The man didn’t respond, merely getting closer. “Where are we?” She repeats, louder. Her voice is far steadier than she feels.

She feels faint. Her stomach rolls and her heart jumps. Dread builds within her gut and every instinct is telling her to run, but she’s rooted in place.

The man comes to a stop before her, and Fausta feels her mind explode into pain.

Those eyes, so distant and cold and familiar. A scythe coming for her- his?- her head that never lands. A second hit that cuts right through him- her?- him. Her name is- His name is- Fausta- Demetrius.

“What- What is happening to me,” they say, torn in two. Aelius’ golden skin and Solaris’ sky blue eyes. Her laughter and his charming smile. “Who am I? Who am I?”

“I don’t know,” the man in front of her says, cold and detached. “I do not care.”

They fall to their knees, clutching at their head. Memories tangle together in a jumble of emotion, elation and despair shooting through them in equal measure.

“Wherever I go, I vow to find you. Forever and always.”

“It hurts,” he sobs, clenching his eyes shut like it might shut out memories that aren’t hers. That are his. That they have been through once before but haven’t.

“Make it stop,” she cries out. She screams and locks eyes with the uncaring reaper before her, “Make it stop!”

She hears a thousand screams echo in her head in response, and he looks on at her pain, eyes dead. They think they see sympathy, but it’s hard to tell through the blur of tears. He sees him lift his scythe and then the world goes blissfully dark.

Bennet is nervous. It’s his wedding day, and he loves Agnes, but he can’t help but be nervous. What if things go wrong? What if Agnes decides she doesn’t love him?

He paces back and forth in his little house. Biting at his nails. A bad habit that he thought he had grown up, but evidently not.

It doesn’t help that Bennet has been having strange dreams for the past week. Dreams that make him wake up with a start, sweat staining his sheets.

Pink hair, a red cloak. Sun-kissed skin and a smile that turns into a smirk. Fair skin and dark hair. Sky blue eyes and belly laughter. A mask with a perpetual smile.

A scythe, wet with blood. Dead eyes and the echoes of a thousand screams.

He wakes from these dreams with a start and his head aches. He starts sleeping less, avoiding these dreams that confuse him, that scare him. Has his Lord decided he is worthy of some divine punishment? Is He planning something? Has the Devil wormed his way into Bennet’s head?

So many questions keep Bennet up at night, and it is a terrible time for it to do so.

Bennet shakes his head, ridding himself of his thoughts. No, he should be focused on his marriage. Agnes deserves his full attention, she’s the love of his life after all.

Agnes looks nothing like the woman with long dark hair. Who smiles with love and sadness in equal measure. Looks nothing like the woman who smells of sweet bread and has soft hands.

Agnes looks nothing like them, so why does he keep thinking of them.

Letting out a groan of frustration, Bennet decides to leave his house for a bit. The ceremony isn’t until nightfall, and staying in his house isn’t helping. He doesn’t know where Agnes is exactly, but he does know that she isn’t in town right now.

With that in mind, he strides out confidently, headed towards the market. Perhaps he’ll get himself some sweet honey. It is his wedding, after all, he can indulge in the delicacy. 

He strides forward, purposely not thinking. He looks at the ground in front of him and counts as many pieces of cobble as he can, the numbers climbing higher and higher. He has no intention of thinking of a scythe piercing his throat because it hasn’t happened and isn’t likely to happen any time soon.

Bennet is concentrating so hard on the ground in front of him that he doesn’t notice the man in front of him until he knocks them both to the ground.

Bennet groans, confused for a moment. “Wha-?”

“My goodness, are you quite alright?” The man asks, and Bennet blinks up at him.

The man has a line of dirt from his cheek across his nose and the strangest spectacles that Bennet has ever seen. His eyes are alight with some sort of emotion that Bennet can’t quite place. Actually, Bennet can’t place much on this man, as strangely dressed as he is.

Still, a lifetime of manners being beaten into him by his Da has him scrabbling up to his feet, spouting apologies. The man laughs, and takes Bennet’s offered hand. “It’s alright, it’s alright,” the man laughs, mouth warping strangely around the words.

“Are you an angel?” Bennet asks, nerves and sleepless nights catching up to him in an instant. He feels the flush of embarrassment crawl up his neck almost immediately as the man stares at him incredulously. The flush only burns more as the man bends over laughing.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, wiping tears from his eyes. “I assure you, I’m not laughing at you.” Bennet can’t help but feel that is a lie, as what else would have prompted that reaction? They’re on the outskirts of town, and there’s almost nothing around.

“Really,” the man says, perhaps sensing Bennet’s mistrust. “I just know someone who would- well, their reaction would be rather funny. Regardless, I should be the one apologizing. I ran into you, after all.”

“No, no, it is alright! I really should have been paying attention to where I was going, I’ve just-” Bennet cuts himself off, unsure how to react. This strange man that Bennet has never seen in his life comes out of nowhere and laughs at him? What do you do with that?

Still, something about this man calls to him. As different as they are, Bennet thinks they’re similar, somehow. He gets a flash of a tree, a mask, soft hands in his, crazed laughter, a small gold clock.

“Sir?” the man asks. “Are you alright?”

“I-I’m fine. Do I… This is going to sound strange but do I know you?”

“I don’t believe so, do I know you?”

“I- No, no, that would be absurd,” Bennet laughs uncomfortably. “Why, I must be more tired than I realized. Ignore me, please.”  
“You do seem familiar, somehow,” the man responds, after a pause. “And I deal in the absurd. Try me, maybe it’s less crazy than you think.”

“You’re going to think me possessed,” Bennet warns, but telling this stranger seems right. Something about him, even with the strange meeting, feels comfortable. Like an old friend.

“Try me,” the man repeats, smile small and warm. So, Bennet does. He tells the man of his strange dreams. Of the memories that he shouldn’t have but does. Of the feeling his presence gives.

The man is quiet for a moment before he whispers, “Well, I’ll be damned. Demetrius?”

Bennet startles, the scent of honey and bread and sticky sweet buns filling his nose. “No,” he says, ignoring the sensation. “I am Bennet. But, no, that name, it isn’t mine but…” Bennet struggles, trying to put the feeling into words. “The name isn’t mine, but it’s also not not mine, if that makes sense? No- Of course it doesn’t, but I don’t know how to explain it.”

“It’s alright, I’m Wilbur,” Bennet blinks again, that sensation of familiarity washing over him again. “I think- I think I know what’s going on. Have you heard of reincarnation?”

“I have,” Bennet says cautiously. He’s heard of the term, though he doesn’t believe it in the slightest. When he dies, he will join his Lord up in heaven, or so the scripture goes. He’s not sure he believes that, either, but to disbelieve is blasphemy.

“I believe, perhaps, you have been reincarnated,” Wilbur says slowly, watching Bennet for his reaction. Bennet, for his part, merely freezes. No, that can’t be true. That’s simply preposterous. He says as much to Wilbur, who bites his lip.

“I’m going to do something, try not to pass out.” And then he disappears in a burst of light. Bennet doesn’t pass out, but it’s a near thing. He’s so high strung, being told things that make no sense and he hasn’t slept in so long. It’s maddening.

Then the man reappears and Bennet does pass out this time.

When he comes to, Wilbur is standing above him, looking concerned. Bennet pinches himself and determines that this isn’t a dream, and is tempted to pass out once more. This is too much and he has a wedding to be at soon.

He says as much to Wilbur who shrugs and helps Bennet up. “I could walk you back, if you’d like?” And Bennet may be overwhelmed but he’s also curious about what in the blazes just happened, so he agrees.

On his way back home, Wilbur tells him of their first meeting, when Demetrius met Wilbur. He tells him of a man named Dream, and a tree they will later call Sapnap. He tells Bennet that Wilbur is from the future, a time traveller, and the small clock is a pocket watch. That the pocket watch is how he travels through time itself.

Bennet isn’t sure how he feels. He thinks maybe he’s gotten very sick. Wonders if maybe he should visit the local priest and ask for a blessing. But at the same time, it sounds right. Dream, a man with a smile mask. Solaris, the woman with sky blue eyes. Demetrius and sticky fingers and sweet warmth.

He still doesn’t know who the rest of the people are, but that’s okay. Bennet has learned enough, he thinks.

Wilbur drops him off at home with a tentative offer to return in a week. Bennet bites his lip before accepting. The delight on the man’s face is enough to wipe away any trepidation that Bennet feels, and he smiles back.

It’s strange, in that way that learning something new is. It is not so much that the knowledge feels wrong, as it is that it doesn’t want to settle into his mind. It turns and turns in his mind, not quite finding a crevice to call home.

Him, a reincarnated spirit? Someone who has lived through the Greek Empire? It sounds absurd, but more than that, it’s absurd that it doesn’t sound nearly as crazed as he thinks it should.

A knock at his door startles him, and for a second he thinks it’s Wilbur. He answers the door, and his shoulders drop in relief. It’s not Wilbur, thankfully. He’s still trying to process everything, and will need the whole week to do so.

Instead the sight that greets him is Godwin’s sunny smile, excitement radiating from him.

“Hello my beauteous friend! How goes it?” Godwin pushes himself into the house and Bennet rolls his eyes, a fond smile on his face.

“I am faring well, dear friend, but I must say that I am a tad nervous,” Bennet admits. Godwin looks him over, a searching gaze that would feel uncomfortable if it was anyone other than Godwin.

Godwin hums, and claps a hand on his shoulder. “You will do just fine. Nothing has to change except that now you can have children without fearing the Lord striking you down! I will still be your best friend and Agnes will still love you. Odilia and I will still tease you relentlessly and you will still be the uncle to our sweet Beatrice.”

Bennet feels his shoulders drop, the last of his nerves leaving. He feels calmed, centered, in a way that only Agnes and Godwin and Odilia can make him feel. Bennet offers up a small smile. “You’re right, fair friend.”

“Of course I am!” Godwin boasts, jovial and immodest and so very him. “Now, Odilia says we need to get you ready, so hop to it! We’ve got quite the mess to tidy, is that a stick in your hair?”

The next hour is a whirlwind of cleaning and preparation and before Bennet knew, he was standing in front of the church, looking upon the young woman he was to marry.

Bennet knows he is lucky, standing on the doorstep, ready to say his vows. He had known Agnes since they were children, and he was lucky that their parents were wealthy enough to allow for a marriage between them. That they could afford a marriage that was not for gain, like Godwin and Odilia’s was.

He smiles, as he says his vows to Agnes. As he vows to stay by her side, vows to protect her, vows to cast aside all other women in exchange for the one in front of him. A glance out of the corner of his eye shows that Godwin is grinning widely, hand in hand with his wife, who he was lucky enough to fall in love with.

“I Bennet take thee Agnes to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness, and in health, till death do us part, if the holy church will ordain it,” Bennet says, sliding the ring onto her finger. She looks radiant, smile soft and kind, and Bennet finds himself falling in love even now.

Falling in love in the way Agnes says it back, matching him always. Falls in love with the softness of her hands. Falls in love with her hair, done up so elegantly he knows she and Odilia must have spent hours on it. Falls in love with her radiance, her dress a pure white that pales in comparison to her beauty.

Bennet’s lucky, he knows, to have the life that he has. To have the wife that he has. Lucky that he can fall more in love day by day, as they help Godwin and Odelia raise their child. As they have a child of their own, Milo, and see Beatrice guide Milo in life. To meet Wilbur again and learn of things that seem outrageous and to pick a little more at the memories locked deep within his mind.

Lucky to have survived the plague as long as they have.

Luck always runs out eventually.

The churches have closed, the situation is so dire. Bennet hasn’t seen Godwin or Odilia at all in at least a week as they grieve over the loss of their Bea. Bennet would comfort them, but Agnes is wasting away in front of his eyes and there is nothing he can do.

Her beauty is distorted through the sickness in her skin. She’s flushed, always, and in pain, always. It hurts for him to see it, for him to know that there is nothing he can do.

Bennet dreams of pink hair and cold, crimson eyes, and always wakes up screaming.

Wilbur hasn’t been around in some time. The last he saw of Wilbur was just before the plague hit. Bennet wonders bitterly if Wilbur knew this would happen, having seen the future and all. Could he have prevented all of this, he wonders?

Mayhap yes, mayhap nay, but either way he hasn’t been around to ask and Bennet feels so alone.

Milo is in their bed, sick along with Agnes though not nearly as far along. Bennet is helpless to stop the tolling of the bells. Helpless to do anything but watch as Milo screams at his mom to wake up.

Helpless to open his son's eyes, as they close and refuse to open again.

Bennet is so alone, and the stench of death is cloying and overwhelming. It crawls into his throat and makes its home in his lungs, choking him. There is nothing he can do to stop it, he knows.

The dreams become even more vivid, and he wakes up screaming, swearing that he can feel cold metal lying against his throat.

Another week passes, two, and then Bennet can’t take the silence anymore. He can feel the sickness in his lungs spreading out, spreading further in. It rises to the surface of his skin and settles deep into his bones, and he knows that he will be following his wife, will be following his son.

Or will he? He has lived previous lives, will this just be another one? Will he wake up in a new body. Will Agnes be just another dream, a faded memory that he will question its origin?

Does he want that to happen?

These thoughts are louder than the silence around him and he wants them to stop. He curses Wilbur, curses running into him. This knowledge, once so welcome, so wondrous, has twisted now that he shall soon be on his own deathbed.

Bennet can’t take it anymore, and with creaky bones and a strength he didn’t know he still possessed, he leaves his house. He walks empty streets, passes by condemned houses and desolate churches and feels a shiver down his spine.

It feels like the end of times, and Bennet can’t help but wonder where Jesus is. Can’t help but wonder if this is another flood to wipe out the sin of humanity.

Another slick shiver works its way down his back, and he wonders if this will be his last life simply because there will be no other lives when this devastation has run its course.

Eventually he makes his way from dirt and cobble paths to a partially splintered door. Bennet ignores the taste in his mouth, body heaving from the exertion of a path he used to travel daily, and a shaky fist knocks weakly.

No one answers immediately and fear worms its way into his heart. Am I too late? He wonders, heart skipping a few precious beats. Is there truly no one left around me?

The door slowly creeps open and Bennet feels a few tears fall from his dry eyes as relief swells within him.

Godwin looks horrible, darkened circles under his eyes, and a flush to his skin that is only the beginning of sickness. Still, he offers up a weak smile, akin to sunshine trying its best to peak behind the clouds.

The stench of death radiates from the open doorway, but Bennet doesn’t flinch. It has been his constant companion, recently, and it’s familiar in the worst way. Bennet takes one step and pitches forward into Godwin’s chest.

Godwin catches him, as he always does, and Bennet could weep with joy at no longer being alone. At having someone by his side other than the oppressive weight of the sickness that surrounds them.

He’s ushered in, Godwin supporting his weight as Bennet’s legs fail to hold his weight. The walk was more arduous than he had realized, with the loneliness pulling him forward. It seems the exhaustion has caught up, finally. Now that he has a safe place to feel it.

Godwin lays him down on his bed, and curls up beside him. They haven’t done this since they were kids, and it aches. He remembers curling around Godwin and whispering about Agnes’ hair, her legs, her hands. Remembers being teased about it in the day, but here he was allowed to express himself knowing Godwin would never judge him. That he would merely support him going forward.

It’s bittersweet, knowing that Agnes is gone and any secrets they may share now are a far cry from the innocent pining of boyhood. That emotions shared here would be steeped in despair and loss.

Bennet sleeps that night, and he thinks the crimson eyes may hold a spark of sympathy as sharp, black clawed fingertips still his body to make the scythe that more accurate.

He wakes in a cold sweat and Godwin’s overwarm embrace. He isn’t crying only because he can’t. His mouth is open in a silent scream as agony washes over him. It takes everything in him not to whimper, not to alert Godwin of his pain, but he doesn’t want to disturb his best friend.

Eventually he gets used to the pain, adjusts to it. It doesn’t really go away, but he manages to clench his jaw against the scream clawing up his throat. He relaxes his body, softening his grip on the sheets, and he just lies there, Godwin’s head on his chest.

He’s stuck on a memory, from when it was announced that Odilia and Godwin were to be married. They hadn’t met, as is usual, but that didn’t stop the jealousy from racing through Bennet. Godwin was his best friend and he would be damned if anyone would take him from Bennet.

He had wondered, then, if this was how Godwin felt about Agnes, when he had first felt the stirrings of adoration. Did Godwin feel the white hot anger rush through him, when her name was mentioned? Feel the fear and desperation fall into his heart?

If so, Godwin deserved a warm meal for keeping his feelings in check because it only took a week for Godwin to know that something was off. To pick up on the underlying tension in Bennet’s words when he had to speak on the upcoming wedding.

They had an argument over it. Not their first, but definitely one of their most serious ones. Godwin didn’t understand why anything had to change and Bennet was convinced that it would no matter what.

It had ended in Bennet screaming that he didn’t want to be replaced and Godwin telling him that could never happen. They were too old for it, then, in their twenties, but it didn’t matter. They still ended up crawling into bed together and whispering words of affirmation. They were best friends of the highest regard. Practically soulmates, except that they had no desire to be wed.

Now here they are, and Bennet can’t help but wonder if this was how Demetrius felt about his Solaris. If that man from the other life, the nameless one, was as important to who he was then. 

Did they have to leave their hearts behind, too? Did they have to see their loved ones die?

For the first time since he met Wilbur he finds himself wondering how those other people did it. How did they leave their lives? What exit did they have? Who did they leave behind, who did they see fade before them.

Bennet looks down at Godwin, who is clearly sick, but not nearly as much as Bennet. He can’t decide if it’s a blessing or a curse, that Bennet will likely be the one to die first. He can’t stand the knowledge of seeing someone else die, losing Agnes and Milo was already too much.

Godwin would be there to witness him die, however. Bennet had crawled over here and ensured it. How cruel, that he didn’t want to die alone so he decided to force his best friend to watch him turn to rot.

“I can hear you thinking,” Godwin mumbles, shifting so his head is no longer on Bennet’s chest. “What rabbits bound through your head today?”

“I’m sorry,” Bennet says, voice raw and scratchy. Godwin looks at him in confusion. “I’m sorry I have to leave you.”

Godwin’s face goes blank. “At least I have practice,” he jokes, though his tone is too flat to make it sound jovial. Bennet flinches, remembering that he hasn’t seen Odilia, and remembering how Beatrice had already passed.

Godwin reaches up to his face, hand a gentle caress. “The Lord has a space saved for us, I’m sure. Wait for me at the gates, would you?”

Bennet relaxes, though guilt weighs him down. Bennet would wait for him, would wait with Agnes and Odilia, with Milo and Bea, but he’s still not sure if he can. He would, oh how he wishes he could, but if he’s truly cursed to come back again, he may not be able to.

He says none of this to Godwin, however. After all, as he thought before it could be that humanity will be gone before he can reincarnate. Perhaps he will be able to wait for him.

Even if he doesn’t, he still does not wish to tell Godwin this. Let him not be weighed down by the curse of knowledge. Hopefully the sight of their wives and children will be enough.

Hopefully his heaven is filled with the love he deserves.

Bennet smiles, “Of course I will wait for you, how could I not?”

That is the last conversation they have. He closes his eyes to rest, and opens them to a barren field that’s both familiar and not.

The memories are already flooding into his head and it hurts, but not as much as it hurt him-her?- when she-he?- they were Fausta. Now that they, he, has something to compare it to, it’s not so bad. They aren’t as surprised by the memories flooding into their mind, aren’t as baffled by the concept.

Though their mind hurts, they don’t scream. They feel too tired for that. Instead they sit, curling their body inwards, and hold their head through the pain. Tears slip down their face as they remember Solaris’ kisses, Velia’s hugs, Aelius’ warm hand in theirs. Now they have new memories for their collection. Godwin’s head on their chest, Agnes’ vows to love them. The weight of their son in their arms. So many people they have loved, and they always end up here, alone.

Well, mostly alone.

They remember now, the pink haired reaper who takes them but never truly kills them. Remembers his confusion and his detachment. Remembers something that could have been sympathy or could have been a delusion. 

They stand, wiping tears off of their face. Their face is smooth and they wonder idly what they look like. They look down at their hands, looking for the boils that were there just a few hours ago and freeze.

Their skin is grey. Why is it grey? Why do they have claws? They’re small and only noticeable because they’re jet black. They bring their hands up to their hair, gripping it to keep from freaking out when they feel it. There’s some sort of… growth on their forehead?

They freeze again, tracing the growth as well as they can in their shaken state. They’re small, barely nubs, but as they press down, they have to yank their hands back.

Two twin pinpricks of blood are on their index fingers, from where they pressed.

No. No, no, no. This isn’t real, this can’t be real. It’s a delusion, it has to be.

They collapse again, struggling to breathe. What’s going on, what are they? What the hell is happening?

Their breathing stutters as they hear heavy footsteps and the toll of a bell, right in front of them. How long had they been sitting there, hyperventilating, to not even notice this person’s approach.

They don’t want to look up, don’t want to see the man they know is there. Don’t want to see cold eyes and hear thousands of damned souls screaming out their agony. They don’t want to do anything, but still they look, gaze drawn to the man’s despite their instincts.

The man looks different somehow, they note through their tears. They wipe their face once more, and ignore the sensation of too sharp nails scratching at their skin.

“Hello?” They choke out, an echo of what they’ve said before. They don’t want to say it, not really, but the pressure of memory as their mouth moves before they can stop themself. They sniff, trying to stop their gasping breaths. “Where are we?” They stutter out.

The man says nothing, just sits down in front of them. They’re confused, and the confusion starts to overwhelm the panic. It’s just a bit, but it’s enough for them to start to gain control over themselves again.

Their tail flicks out, coming to rest over their legs, and they ignore that new development. If they think about it, they will fall back into hysterics, and they’ve done a lot of crying recently. At this point, it’s almost annoying.

Almost.

They sit in silence, and take in the man, trying to place why he looks different. He still has the scar across his nose. Still has bright pink hair in a long, ratty braid. His eyes are still the color of blood and seem to have no light behind them.

Only, no. That’s not entirely true. They stare deeper into the man’s eyes, frowning. They aren’t as empty as they were before. His mouth, too, isn’t quite so deep set in a frown. He’s certainly not smiling, but he looks lighter, almost.

They wonder why that is, and then decide they don’t care and look away.

They sit in awkward silence, and they are determined to not break it. This man has taken so much from them, and can’t even seem to finish the job properly. Let him deal with the awkward air.

Maybe it’s petty, but they’ve lived three lives now, they don’t really care about that.

Eventually, the man clears his throat and they smirk to themselves. They are just as stubborn as Aelius, when they want to be. Or at least Fausta was, and they were, are, Fausta.

They still don’t know how to process that exactly. They are the same, at their core, but the different lives have shaped them to be different in many regards. Are they still Demetrius? Or are they Bennet now, as he was their most recent life?

The man clears his throat again and they snap their head up at him.

“So,” the man says, not looking at them. “You’re dead. Again.”

“And you have no tact,” they retort, deadpan. The man shifts a little, and they would almost say that he looks uncomfortable, if it wasn’t for the fact that they didn’t think him capable of feeling anything, not even discomfort.

The sympathy in the past was just a delusion, they decided. This man has taken everything from them, even the possibility of joining their loved ones wherever the afterlife actually is. Anything to free them from the purgatory they find themself trapped in.

The man shrugs and it’s silent again for a long moment. The man clears his throat again, and they want to roll their eyes. They only just stop from doing so.

“So,” he says again, ever eloquent. “What are you?” And they lose it. They laugh, and laugh. They laugh until there are tears streaming down their face and then they keep laughing. They laugh until their stomach hurts, and still they keep laughing. It’s slightly hysterical, but they feel slightly hysterical, and they just don’t care.

What are they, indeed.

Eventually they come to a stop, though the tears still slowly stream down their face. “I don’t know,” they whisper. “I just don’t know. Isn’t that funny?” They look up at the man, and grin, feeling sharp canines on their bottom lip. They ignore that too.

“I- Not really?” The man responds, leaning away from them slightly. They just let out another chuckle, decidedly unamused.

“No. No I guess it’s not.” It’s silent again, and this time they are the first to break. “What are you, then?”

“Dunno,” and this time they do roll their eyes. “Death, I guess. But it’s not like I control when people die, I just know they’re going to. ‘S weird.”

They look at him, curious despite themself. “What do you mean?”

The man bites at his upper lip with his tusk like bottom teeth. “It’s like, there’s this tug in my chest sometimes. It gets painful if I ignore it, like there’s a brand bein’ pressed there. It leads me where I need to go. Then I touch the person, see their life, and swipe through them with my scythe. And then they’re gone.”

“Where do they go?”

“Dunno.”

“Helpful.”

“I live to serve.”

“Are you even alive?” They ask, eyes narrowed. It’s only because they’re looking so intently at them that they see his eyes widen slightly.

“... Dunno.”

“You sure don’t know much,” they say, sugar sweet disposition turning sarcastic. They think they’ve earned it, in this case.

“Are you alive?” The man asks, eyebrow raised. They don’t have a response.

They sit in silence again, but there’s a comfort that’s there that wasn’t before. Neither of them are quite alive, or quite human, and there’s something of a comfort in the thought that they aren’t alone. Though their heart aches for their loved ones, for the desire to see them all again, at least they aren’t alone.

Perhaps that comfort is what prompts them to ask, “What’s your name? It’s getting tedious, referring to you as the man.”

The man looks over at them, and they swear they see what could be a smile tugging at their lips. “Technoblade,” the man, Technoblade, responds. “Techno, for short.” There’s a fondness in those eyes, the first clear emotion that they’ve seen. They feel almost like they’re intruding on something, before the look on Techno’s face passes. “Your’s?”

They pause, frowning. They are Bennet, just as they are Fausta and Demetrius, but they aren’t separate entities. They are all one person, and those three names don’t seem to fit.

“Dunno,” they mumble, bringing their knees up to their chest. “Nothing seems to fit.” Techno looks at them, and they start to shift uncomfortably. The gaze is penetrating, which they supposed makes sense, but it doesn’t make it any easier to bear.

“Make a new one.”

“Pardon?”

“Make a new name,” he says, like that makes any sense whatsoever.

“That isn’t how names work!” They splutter. Names are something that your parents give you, not something you just have.

“Why not?” Techno challenges, eyes narrowed. “Who says they can’t?”

“They just- They just don’t, okay?”

“But you can have nicknames just fine, why not go the extra step?”

“I don’t-”

“If the name doesn’t fit who you are, you are under no obligation to keep it,” Techno interrupts. “Mine didn’t fit me until a man smiled and gave me this one. It’s the one that I choose to keep, and therefore it is my name. If none of your names fit, why not try a new one?”

It makes sense, even if it’s not something they’ve ever really heard of before. Nicknames are not uncommon, they even called Beatrice, Bea, or little bee. It feels strange, however, naming themself.

“What would I even call myself,” they mumble, sinking deeper into their knees. “All of the ones I used to have feel… Wrong. Bad.”

“Then there you are, your name is Bad.” Techno says it with such sincerity that they feel like he means it.

“What?” They ask, incredulous. “You’re saying that I should go around calling myself Bad? That- What?” They laugh a little, despite themself.

“Shut up,” Techno growls, and if they didn’t know any better they’d say he was blushing. “Whatever, just, would you say you want a boy name or a girl name or neither.”

“You’re serious about this?” Techno shifts a little, cheeks darkening that much more. He’s definitely blushing now.

“It felt right, getting my own name. I may not be alive, may not be human, but that doesn’t mean I don’t deserve my own name. You deserve one, too, one that stays the same no matter what life you live.”

“Boy, I guess” they say, even though they don’t really care. It’s more nostalgia, than anything. They were originally born a boy and though they’ve been both, and liked both equally, there’s something special about who they had been in that first life.

“Badboy?” Techno asks, confused.

“What? No! You asked a question, I was just answering it!”

“Oh, well. How was I supposed to know, you didn’t provide context!”

They just look at Techno, baffled, before laughing again, without the hysteria. It feels liberating. It feels like a sunny afternoon and honey and sticky sweet kisses. Techno smiles, and though he doesn’t laugh, they feel accomplished anyway.

“I mean, it fits, doesn’t it? The whole, bad boy… thing. What with the horns,” they gently reach up to their forehead, feeling the little pinpricks of growths they don’t really want to acknowledge. Just like that, their good mood dissipates again.

“Nah,” Techno says. “You’re the nicest person I know, it’s disgusting. Those horns are there to hold up a halo or something.” And they grin.

“BadBoyHalo. How’s that sound?”

Techno looks at them, looks at their grin, and nods. “If that’s what you want.” They stand up, and stretch.

“Yeah, I think it is.”

Techno stands as well, brushing off nonexistent dust from himself. “Ready to go Bad?” And they nod.

“Until next time, right?”

The scythe comes towards their neck, and they smile as they fall into oblivion.

**Author's Note:**

> I was originally supposed to be a one shot, but then I kept writing and writing and writing and well... Here we are! I wanted to get this out on new years eve and I did! Hopefully the next bit of Bittersweet Immortality will be out tomorrow <3
> 
> Once more I want to say that this idea was all spawned from [heytherestilinki's tumblr](https://heytherestilinski.tumblr.com/). They're the creator of this idea, and when they said that bbh was an old soul, I heckin ran with it, okay? This would not exist without them, and I highly suggest checking them out and showering them in kind words! They deserve it. Kota, if you're seeing this, I adore you and hope you're having a wonderful day <3
> 
> Finally, special shout out to dearest bitter-cat ([bittercat7 on twitter](https://twitter.com/bittercat7)). She's been an avid supporter of me, and has given me the best comments like... ever. She's been so helpful and has been on the receiving end of many a info dump of ideas I had for this au, and this wouldn't be nearly as good without her help. Ily Bitter!
> 
> If you have any questions, comments, concerns, etc. direct them to my [tumblr](https://tinydemondragon.tumblr.com/)! I’m more likely to see it there first.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [we carved spaces in each other's hearts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28572777) by [bitter_cat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitter_cat/pseuds/bitter_cat)




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